George's Grand Tour

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Authors: Caroline Vermalle
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their own spelling. Text language is a bit odd, but it’s cool, you’ll see.’
    â€˜Ah, OK, it’s got its own spelling has it? But why can’t you just write normally?’
    The young girl thought for a moment, and it was her friend who finally answered him:
    â€˜It works better if you write them in text language. It’s, like, quicker.’
    George nodded as if he understood. He would have liked to learn more but three English tourists had just arrived with all their suitcases and it was time for him to go up to his room.
    On his way back upstairs, he received a reply from Adèle. ‘OK.’ This text language was rather annoying but it had helped take his mind off other things. Adèle’s little message had made him happy. He looked at it several times, but then it was gone, lost in his phone, and he couldn’t get it back. At least he knew it was in there somewhere. It was like getting a little postcard. That would really make the girls downstairs laugh, an old fogey saying that text messages were like postcards. But still, it had made him happy.

Sunday 28 September
    Brest (Finistère)
    George and Charles spent the day exploring the town. George remembered photographs of Brest’s proud arsenal as it stood before the war, with its castle and beautiful ships. But as he kept saying to Charles, the Germans had blown everything up. Wide, dead-straight roads, concrete high-rises and depressing architecture had risen from the rubble. On the receptionist’s advice, the two friends headed for the harbour, which was more authentic and had more going on than the centre of town.
    By the time they arrived, they had worked up a thirst, but all the café terraces were overrun with teenagers with funny haircuts. In search of a café ‘like the ones back home’, they walked along the docks amid cranes and green and red buoys, disused railway lines and rusted grain carts, and soon forgot what it was they had set out to look for. It was a nice day and the sea air was refreshing, even if it did smell slightly of petrol. Their strolltook them right up to the marina at the far end of the harbour. Down a side street, they happened upon Chez Odile, where they settled down to a steak and chips, followed by cheese and coffee. They made slow progress back to the car: they needed time to digest. George managed to take a nap during the ten-minute drive back to the hotel, where they had a well-earned siesta.
    Â 
    It was 6.30 p.m., and Charles had been banging on about one thing all day: he had come to Brittany to eat galettes bretonnes. The hotel reception recommended Crêperie Saint-Malo, just around the corner. At quarter to seven, they were the first diners in the restaurant. Charles was in a great mood, but his travelling companion was squirming in his seat. Eventually, when he couldn’t keep quiet any longer, George took the bull by the horns.
    â€˜So, just to be clear, you have no idea how to write texts?’
    â€˜Not a clue.’
    â€˜Right, because … I have to send one to Adèle this evening. Which is a nice idea, but I don’t know how to write them.’
    â€˜What do you mean, you don’t know how? You sent one last night, didn’t you?’
    â€˜Well, as far as the technology goes, I’ve got it. It’s not actually that complicated, you know. But anyway, the point is, there’s a special language. You can’t just write a text like you’d write … I dunno, a postcard. You see, it doesn’t pack the same punch if it’s written normally,’ said George sagely, as if this were a universally acknowledged truth.
    â€˜No, no, of course not,’ agreed Charles, not wanting to seem out of touch.
    â€˜But I’m no expert when it comes to text language.’
    â€˜So how did Adèle write her text, then?’
    â€˜Well, she didn’t exactly reply in detail … It’s hard to tell from just one

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